A lot of sporting writers weave their accomplishments into their narratives. They mention all the big game in all the exotic places they’ve hunted so they can pay homage to their favorite little domestic honey spot. They can’t help it, and I am not suggesting they should. It doesn’t hurt the story. In most cases it makes for good storytelling. Which is why I begin with my own particular vanity.

That and the simple fact I have to start somewhere. I grew up around deer and some bird hunting, but I didn’t get my first shotgun until last year. I’m still in the initial shooting stage of sportsmanship, and what do I do but go right out and get a French Brittany puppy, one bred to be a seriously good hunter.

I’ve been this way all my life. When I sold bait in the third grade I ordered business cards. My first sailboat was 65 feet stem to stern. It’s who I am.

This grand gundog gesture didn’t spring from nowhere. In November I went on a wild quail hunt with Quail Forever out in Tex-Oklahoma. It was the kind of hunt most hunters dream of taking one day. I flew in from Denver on a single-prop plane. Once in Darrouzett we were miles from the next town. No franchises, not much street lighting; worn and tired and extremely attractive, if only for a weekend.

We flushed over seventy coveys that weekend. I feathered a bird. I think one of the men made that term up for me so that I could say I did indeed make contact. I feathered one. Before the hunt I was highly interested in having a gundog. After, I was hooked.

I’d been talking to my friend Mark for months about the breed he loves, the French Brittany. He felt it was right for me, but I could tell he was not interested in encouraging me lest he make an irresponsible match. But when he called to say there was a female named Holly too small to breed and therefore a deal, I knew to drive an hour outside of Charleston, S.C., and bring her home.

She was already four months old, and I had to two weeks of upcoming travel planned. I would learn these weeks and months were crucial in gundog training days, and that if I was going to get Holly I would need to put my priorities in order. Holly and I left her relatives behind and made our way back home; she had taken her place at the forefront.

Before I took her home—it took an hour of conversation just to get to see the dog—she sight-pointed a quail feather at the end of a stick. This weekend I read you shouldn’t let puppies sight-point more than a few times for kicks or you’ll spoil them to it. I read that this weekend because I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on while “Holly Hemlock” gets her teeth and paws around everything in my 400-square-foot cottage. Charleston County Library happened to have a book on gundog training, a small miracle, along with Puppies for Dummies.

I’ve already ordered a whistle, some feathers, and quail scent online. Holly will come to the whistle; that is all Holly will do. I can’t teach her to hup (I read it’s “hup” if you own a spaniel, “sit” if you own a retriever.), but we’ll get there.

I didn’t get any sleep for a month after Holly Hemlock came home. Okay, I’ll be honest: I didn’t get any sleep until last week, which might be why I have just enough energy to write this. I spent last week calling professional gundog trainers and found one an hour upstate. They aren’t cheap, those trainers, and you don’t get to see your dog while she is away. But Holly Hemlock has the desire to find a bird in her genes, and to point. I do not want to fail this puppy.

Until last week we were up every morning at 3 a.m. and again around 5. I’ve started going to bed at 9 at night to get ahead of this thing. I kennel her during work, a must, and always try to make time to walk her at night.

I asked my church small group for prayer. One of the girls told me, “A tired puppy is a good puppy,” so on Saturday I backed out of plans to sail and stayed home with Holly. We practiced our “Whoa” command. That’s sight-pointing, so I’ll have to put the scent on something and bury it under leaves.

I think.

I read about tying a check cord around her waist. On the way home from the store I saw a rope in the road by my house. I thought, This will do for the weekend.

I haven’t used it yet, but my point is, I’ve become a person stopping on the side of the road to obtain a tattered rope. I missed a party later that night, too. You don’t simply bend your life around a gundog; you change it.

I looked online at training- and tracking-collar combos. The good one, just shy of a thousand bucks. I emailed customer service; no alternative?

My uncle says you can’t learn how to train a dog by asking other people. You have to train yourself for what you want the dog to know, and then you train the dog. He says it’s only you and the dog.

Holly is already a hunter. It’s me we’re training.